Page 17 of The Hockey Stud

“He’s expecting us,” I say to Rosie, fastening my seatbelt securely as she seamlessly merges our car into the steady flow of traffic. The city lights flicker across her face as I continue, “He wouldn’t talk over the phone, and from the way the conversation played out, I got the distinct impression that there were other people nearby, probably listening in on every word.” I let out a small, frustrated shrug, feeling the weight of uncertainty. “I just can’t figure the guy out. Because of him, we’ve started scrutinizing the support staff more closely, which, honestly, is something we should have done right from the start instead of waiting until now.” I wince, the realization stinging a bit more than I expected. “However, he’s⁠—”

“Hiding behind a mask,” Rosie interjects, her voice calm but edged with a note of understanding, finishing my thought for me as the car glides forward under the city’s watchful early morning glow.

The Lion’s plane sits on the tarmac, its sleek, silver fuselage gleaming under the afternoon sun, reflecting the light in a way that makes it look almost brand new. The engines are silent for now, but there’s an air of anticipation as people begin to gather at the base of the stairs, slowly making their way up and onto the aircraft. Each person seems to pause for a moment, perhaps taking in the impressive sight of the plane before climbing aboard.

As I watch the steady flow of passengers, I can’t help but wonder aloud, “I wonder if it’s as nice inside as the Vikings’ jet.” The Vikings’ plane has always been the gold standard—luxurious, spacious, and equipped with every amenity imaginable.

Rosie, standing beside me, gives a noncommittal shrug and mutters, “Probably,” her tone suggesting she isn’t particularly interested in comparing the two. She gestures with a nod toward the big defenseman waiting near the bottom of the stairs, his imposing figure unmistakable even from a distance. “Let’s get this over with,” she adds, her voice tinged with impatience.

At the entrance to the plane, Levenski, the team’s formidable defenseman, acknowledges our approach with a curt nod. His expression is serious, as usual. “I don’t know who it is,” he begins, his voice low and gravelly, “but I did notice someone wearing a Viking’s T-shirt—one of those shirts that are only given to staff—slipping out from the locker room the night we played there.”

I try to make sense of this. “Staff go in there,” I point out, thinking it might not be unusual.

Levenski rubs his jaw thoughtfully, clearly unconvinced. “I noticed because it was a woman,” he explains, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And I know for a fact that women aren’t allowed inside the locker room. That’s the rule.”

His words catch me off guard, and I glance quickly at Rosie, who is already looking at me, her brow furrowed in concern. I turn my attention back to Drago, wanting to be sure. “You’re sure?” I ask, searching his face for any sign of uncertainty.

He lets out a short, amused chuckle. “Unless you have a guy working for you with boobs and curves,” he says, his tone dry but not unkind. “I was surprised.”

Rosie rolls her eyes at his remark, clearly unimpressed by his attempt at humor, but the underlying tension remains.

Rosie climbs back into the car, closing the door softly behind her, while I remain standing outside with Levenski. The air between us feels heavy with unspoken words. I finally break the silence, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Why are you willing to help us?” I ask, searching his face for any hint of his true intentions.

Levenski exhales deeply, the sound almost a sigh of resignation. He looks away for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal, then meets my eyes again. “I’m not who you think I am,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with vulnerability. He gives a small, almost helpless shrug. “It’s not easy being who I am in the league,” he continues, and I can sense the years of struggle behind his words. There’s a raw honesty in his gaze, and suddenly, understanding dawns on me. The shock of realization hits me—Drago Levenski is gay.

I feel a surge of empathy and solidarity. Without hesitation, I extend my hand toward him. “As long as you promise not to take Dover out, you can count on me as a friend,” I say sincerely, wanting him to know he’s not alone.

A mischievous smirk appears on Levenski’s face as he reaches out and clasps my hand firmly. “Dover’s hot,” he admits with a playful glint in his eye. He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before shaking it. “Just make sure you keep an eye on him,” he adds, his tone half-joking, half-serious.

“I will,” I promise, nodding in agreement, my voice steady and resolute as I meet Levenski’s gaze. He studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face as if trying to read the sincerity behind my words. There is a knowing look in his eyes, a subtle glint that suggests he understands more than he lets on. “Hmm. I’m sure you will,” he finally says, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, betraying a small, almost imperceptible smile. With that, Levenski turns away from me, his posture relaxed and confident, and begins to stride purposefully toward the waiting plane, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the tarmac. He leaves me standing there, watching his retreating figure.

After a moment, I gather myself and make my way to the car. As I settle into the seat, I immediately sense that something is off. The atmosphere inside the car feels tense, almost electric. Rosie sits beside me, gripping her phone tightly in one hand, her knuckles white with frustration. Her brows are furrowed, and she looks genuinely pissed off, her lips pressed into a thin line. I glance at her, concern rising in my chest, and ask quietly, “What?” My question hangs in the air, filled with apprehension, as I brace myself for whatever news or revelation has caused her obvious distress.

“The equipment staff entered the locker room but quickly exited, unable to stay inside for more than a moment. According to them, an overpowering, nauseating odor filled the entire room, making it nearly impossible to breathe. They suspect that the source of the stench is a dead animal, though they have not investigated further to confirm this. Now, the staff are waiting outside the locker room for us to arrive and deal with the situation.

“Can’t someone else take care of the mess? Why do we have to be the ones to remove whatever’s in there?” I ask, hoping there might be another solution.

Rosie sighs, “You’re missing the point. If there really is a dead animal in the locker room, it’s possible that whoever Levenski saw is responsible for putting it there.” As she speaks, Rosie drives us away from the hanger, her mind clearly racing with the implications, while my own thoughts whirl with uncertainty and concern about what might be going on.

Realizing the situation might be more complicated—and potentially dangerous—than we first thought, I quickly pull out my phone and dial the number for the security office at the arena, hoping they can provide assistance or at least help us understand what we’re dealing with.

Niall Ryland answers the phone promptly, his voice crisp and professional. He is a recent hire, having just transitioned from military service into this new role. “Can you locate and pull all surveillance footage from the cameras positioned outside the team’s locker room, specifically during the timeframe when the Minnesota Lions were present in the building? I’m trying to identify a woman who was seen wearing a team t-shirt but who doesn’t appear to have any legitimate reason for being there.”

Without hesitation, Niall responds, “Got it, boss.” With that, he ends the call.

I shake my head with a wry smile. “It’s just as well I didn’t need anything else from him right now.”

Rosie can’t help but snicker at the exchange. “He’s really good at what he does. No nonsense, straight to the point, and always focused on the job. I think he’s just relieved to be handling something more interesting than his usual routine of monitoring the building’s security feeds.”

I turn to her, still grinning. “I’ll leave you to deal with the animal situation, since your husband is bound to refuse to let you inside. They’ll probably end up calling pest control, or whoever else is necessary, to handle it and get rid of the creature.”

Rosie laughs, shaking her head. “If I do end up going in there, you’d better watch your back, Partner. You never know what might happen.”

I return her grin. “I’ll go and start reviewing the footage,” I say, already mentally preparing for what I might find.

Ryland, sporting his meticulously trimmed military crop and a sharply pressed suit, stands ready with the data feed I requested, already lined up and waiting for my review. He’s a reliable man—dependable, diligent, and perhaps just a touch too eager to meet every expectation. Still, I find his enthusiasm endearing, and I genuinely like working with him.

As I settle into the chair beside him, I turn to Ryland and ask, “Did you find anything?” My tone is casual, but I’m keenly interested in his response, curious to see what he’s uncovered.